by Mary McHugh
“This is Church of the Transfiguration,” Andrei said. “Built in 1714, also of wood and without a single nail. Not one nail in whole building! Church has twenty-two wooden onion domes made of aspen. Too cold for services in wintertime, so people built smaller church nearby called ‘winter church,’ which could be heated by fire. Now is one priest who comes to island. In winter he must come by helicopter because water is frozen and no boats can come through.”
Gini said, “Be right back,” and ran down to the lake to photograph the curve of the shoreline along the island’s edge. Alex followed her and held her bag while she took pictures.
“Check out Gini and Alex,” Janice said to me in front of the church as we waited for the others to take pictures. “He follows her around like a little puppy dog.”
“I think they really like each other,” I said. “I’ve never seen Gini so lively or so happy.”
“Was his information about India helpful?” Pat said.
“Yeah, what’s happening with that?” Mary Louise asked.
“The Indian government is giving her a really hard time,” I said. “But Gini just adores this little girl and is going to keep trying. I’m sure Alex will help her. The New York Times can do anything.”
“He seems like a good guy,” Janice said. “Do you think he’s right for Gini?”
“Who knows who’s right for Gini?” I said. “She’s always so quick to find faults in a man. Maybe she’s not meant to be married. Not everyone is.”
“Tell me about it,” Janice said.
“Oh, Janice,” I said, “I meant to ask you, did you find Brad yesterday? I know you wanted to talk to him more about that play he’s in.”
“Yes, I saw him a couple of times, because I wanted to keep him from going to Allgood’s room. The bartender told me that Brad and the chef had a drink at the bar last night, and he said he heard them say they were going back to the chef’s room.”
“Gini and I saw them heading for Allgood’s cabin,” I said, pulling Janice along to catch up to Andrei. “Did the bartender hear anything else they said?”
“Well, his English isn’t all that good,” Janice said, “and they talked too softly for him to hear much. But he said they kept touching each other and, once, they kissed. He said—remember, he’s Russian and Russians aren’t all that cool with gay guys—he said, ‘Disgusting. Men not born to love men. Should only love women.’ ”
“Our country’s getting better about gays, but it wasn’t really all that great until very recently,” Pat said.
I knew that Pat often counseled gay couples in her practice. “It’s still hard for gay couples who come to see me,” she went on. “They often have a really tough time in the community, especially if they are bringing up a child. Why do some straight people go bananas if gay people get married? How does it hurt them? I just think of their children. It would be so great for those kids if gay marriage was legal all over the country.”
“Yeah, gay people should have the same chance to be miserable as the rest of us,” Janice said.
Pat laughed, and said, “It doesn’t make sense. I’ll never understand it.”
“Explain this to me, Pat,” I said. “How could that chef be kissing Stacy one minute and Brad the next? Do you think he swings both ways?”
“Well, some people do,” Pat said. “But I don’t think Ken was bisexual. I think he wanted something from Brad and he was pretending to be gay.”
“What do you think he wanted?” I said.
“I think he was using him to get to New York,” Pat said. “Maybe Brad changed his mind and wouldn’t help him, and they got into a fight, and one or both of them got killed.”
“Could be. Who knows what happened. Oh look, Andrei is motioning to us to follow him.”
We caught up to Andrei and followed him on a tour of the rest of the island, past a windmill on a base that rotated so that the blades always faced the wind, and past many pale domed churches. We stopped in front of a small church that looked like the poorer sibling of all the other impressive churches we had seen. It had one dome on top.
“This is Church of the Resurrection of Lazarus, built in the fourteenth century,” Andrei said. “Bible says Jesus raised Lazarus from dead. He was dead four days and Jesus made him live again.” He shrugged. It was obvious he didn’t really believe this story, but it was part of his spiel. “Believe what you like.”
Andrei smiled and bowed to us. “This is end of tour,” he said. “I hope you enjoyed. The rest of the day you do as you like. Many beautiful things for sale here.”
He pointed to the tents lining our path back to the ship. “You can find presents to take back to your family and friends. Ship will sail through some beautiful lakes. You can see more little towns.”
I walked past the row of tents and saw merchants selling everything from fur hats to Russian nesting dolls. The passengers from our ship crowded into the small shops, looking for gifts for their loved ones. Russian dresses and scarves hung on display, creating a rainbow of color and beauty.
“Look, lady, you like this one,” a young man called to me as I passed his booth. He held up one of the nesting dolls, called matryoshka, which had Putin as the largest doll. When I stopped, he opened the doll and showed me Medvedev inside Putin, then Yeltsin inside him, then Gorbachev, then Stalin, and, finally, the smallest doll was Lenin. I considered getting one just to prove I’d been to Russia, but changed my mind.
I walked along the path, glancing at all the goods in each tent, some things really beautiful, some junk. There were fur coats, colorful Russian dresses striped in blue and yellow and red that I loved but knew I would never wear at home, costume jewelry that was pretty but not my style. I’m not a shopper, but I kept looking for something to take back to my daughters and grandchildren.
I poked around until I saw a table in one of the tents with the most exquisitely decorated eggs I had ever seen. I mean real eggs, not the Fabergé kind. I don’t know how, but some gifted artist had painted a little scene or design on the outside of the egg, then made a small hole in the bottom of the shell, drained out the contents, and attached a thin silver cord to the top, making incredibly beautiful Christmas tree ornaments. Fragile, delicate, something I could only buy here. Perfect for my daughters.
The man who owned the shop watched me as I looked at his goods. “All original,” he said. “Very good souvenir for you.”
Each egg was different. Each one perfection. I wanted to buy them but I was worried they wouldn’t make it back to New Jersey in one piece.
“Can you pack these so they won’t break on the plane going home?” I asked. “They look so fragile.”
“Of course,” he said. “We make sure your eggs arrive safe. Do not worry.”
I carefully picked up an egg that was white with a black design, the silhouette of Santa Claus in his sleigh sailing over the rooftops of a city. His reindeer kicked up their hooves, and some toys stuck out of his bag in the back. The reins he held, the runner on the sleigh, the tiny chimneys on the buildings were all exquisitely painted with precision and care. It was hard to imagine an artist who could have a touch delicate enough to produce something so intricate on an eggshell without breaking it. I was enchanted. My daughter Kyle would love this one.
I looked at the other eggs, all of them beautiful, until I found one that would be just right for my other daughter, Laurie. It had holly branches decorated with red ribbons and gold bells painted on it. Each of these eggs was like nothing I had ever seen before. I knew my daughters would appreciate their uniqueness.
The owner of the shop wrapped each one painstakingly, securely, so they each had a good chance of getting back home in one piece.
I was ready to go back to the ship, but the last tent I passed had a table piled high with fur hats. I couldn’t resist trying some of them on. One was a small tower of light gray Persian wool. Another was a white ermine beauty that covered my whole head. There was a dark mink band that looked really good with
my blond hair.
The man behind the table said, “You should wear hats. You have beautiful face.”
Listen, I know my face isn’t beautiful, but it’s not bad. My blue eyes are my best feature, but I also lucked out with a Scottish complexion of pink and white, a not-bad nose, and a good smile.
I tried on several more round fur hats. Then I saw a large one made of mink, with a hammer and sickle pin on the front. Peter would love it. Solid, respectable lawyer that he is, he still enjoys shaking people up once in a while. I think one of the reasons he likes me is because I do too.
“I’ll take this one,” I said.
Tina’s Travel Tip: When buying gifts in Russia to take back home, remember that a foot-high samovar is hard to pack.
Chapter 10
Samovars and Underwear
None of my Hoofer pals had made it back to the ship yet. They were all still raiding the tents. I knew it would be a while until they got back. Unlike Gini and me, they actually liked shopping.
I ordered a cup of tea in the Skylight Bar and was enjoying being alone when my phone rang. It was Peter.
“Hi, beautiful,” he said. “I just wanted to find out how everything is going. How’s the ship? Are you a huge success? I’ve been waiting for you to call me.”
“I’m sorry. Peter, listen—now don’t get upset, but there was a murder on the ship.”
“Are you kidding? What do you mean, don’t get upset? Are you all right? What’s going on there? Who was murdered?”
“We’re all right. The British chef I told you about—the one who was a terrible cook—someone killed him.”
“Do they kill people in Russia for being terrible cooks?”
“I hope not or I’m next,” I said.
“You’re not a terrible cook,” he said. “You just don’t think cooking is an art form.”
I couldn’t help it. Murder or not, I had to laugh. Peter can always make me find humor in any situation. It’s one of the reasons we’re such good friends.
“Really, Tina. If there’s a murderer running around loose on that ship, I wish you’d come home.”
“I figure as long as I don’t cook anything, I’m safe,” I said, and we both laughed again.
“Seriously, Tina, be careful, will you? I don’t want anything to happen to you. What’s going on now?”
“The Russian police are going to ask us some questions.”
“Don’t give them anything but your name and social security number,” Peter said, sounding like the defense lawyer he once was when he worked for Legal Aid, before he joined a law firm. “Just remember, SOS in Morse code is dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot, in case you meet the murderer.”
I laughed. “Who knows Morse code anymore? What are you—eighty years old? Anyway, I’m innocent. I didn’t kill him even though the food was really bad. Stop worrying about us and tell me how you’re doing. How was your day in court?”
“It was postponed, yet again,” he said. “I’ll be glad when I can stop practicing my argument and actually give it.”
“What about the Chinese opera? How was that?” We’d gotten tickets together, but after the Hoofers were booked for our Russian cruise, I encouraged Peter to go with another friend.
“Oh, fine, I suppose,” he said. “I think Elizabeth enjoyed it more thanI did. All those high sopranos got on my nerves after a while.”
I remembered Elizabeth, an attractive associate at Peter’s firm, whom I’d met at their Christmas party. To my surprise, I felt a twinge of jealousy.
“I’ll call you after they question us so I can tell you about the Russian interrogation techniques,” I said. “I hope there won’t be any water-boarding.”
“You always say you’re going to call,” Peter said. “And then you don’t. I’m warning you, I’m going to keep bothering you if I don’t hear from you.”
“Oh, Peter, wait—there’s something I want to ask you. One of your classmates from law school is on the ship. A man named Barry Martin. Do you know him?”
Peter said, “As a matter of fact, I do. I never liked him. He tends to throw his weight around a lot. But maybe he’s changed. He’s a partner in a Wall Street firm.”
“I don’t think he’s changed. There was something about him I didn’t like, so I’m relieved to hear you didn’t like him either. It’s not just me.”
“No, it’s not just you. But seriously, Tina, call me, will you please? Give me an update. If the murderer is still on the loose, he might strike again.”
“I will, Peter. Stop worrying. We’re fine. Bye.”
I didn’t really believe the “fine” part. The idea of a murderer lurking around the ship somewhere was always in the back of my mind, no matter how hard I tried not to believe it.
An hour later my friends came rollicking into the Skylight Bar, carrying paper bags full of gifts to take home. They were all giddy with the fun of finding treasures they couldn’t buy in New Jersey.
“What did you guys get?” I asked. “Gini—you’re empty-handed. Couldn’t you find any tourist traps to raid?”
“I’m like you. Not a shopper,” Gini said, “as you well know. But I got some pictures of the churches and the river that are gorgeous. Look, I’ll show you.”
She opened her digital camera and showed me photos of cathedrals taken from unusual angles, and of Russians selling their goods. The women wore scarves around their heads—babushkas, they called them—and long dresses that were blue or red or green or yellow. Their bright garments were flashes of light against the gray buildings, like the domes of the cathedrals that brightened up the sky that day. Another photo showed a man playing music on a tray of glasses filled with water at different levels. Gini had captured the uniqueness of the little town. The shots couldn’t have been taken anywhere but Russia.
“Oh, Gini, they’re beautiful,” I said. “Can you send them to my phone?”
“Sure. Just tell me the ones you want,” she said. “But when I get home, I’ll edit my photos and post the best ones on my website. Then you can download any that you like.”
“Tina,” Mary Louise said, reaching into a shopping bag, “look at these black lacquer boxes. I bought one for everyone for Christmas presents. Aren’t they lovely?”
She pulled out a shiny black enamel box with a painting of a sleigh drawn by three prancing steeds, one red, one white, one beige. A young couple rode in the sleigh and the driver was urging the horses on, waving his arms. It was nighttime, with stars and a crescent moon in the sky. The wind was blowing the horses’ manes. You could feel the movement and urgency of the scene.
“It’s gorgeous, Mary Louise,” I said. “I love it. They’ll be great gifts. Hope I’m getting one.”
“If you’re good,” she said. “I don’t suppose you bought anything, you anti-shopper.”
“Wait till you see,” I said. “I actually broke down and bought something I couldn’t resist for Laurie and Kyle. I’m dying to show you, but they’re super breakable and they’re already wrapped for the trip back home. So I’ll show you when we get back.”
“What did you buy?”
“They’re hard to describe but . . . they’re eggs decorated for Christmas. They’re so beautiful I hate to give them away.”
“I saw those in one of the tents,” Janice said. “They really are gorgeous. I wanted to buy some to take back, but I was sure I’d break them.”
“The man promised me they would survive the trip,” I said. “I mean, he does this all the time.”
“Good luck with that,” Janice said.
“Looks like you got something big, Jan,” I said. I could hardly see her over the top of the bag on her lap. “What is it?”
“I couldn’t resist it,” Janice said. “It’s just so . . . so . . . Russian.” She carefully pulled out a large samovar.
“Oh, Janice, that’s really beautiful,” Pat said. “But how will you get it home? I mean, how will you get it in your luggage?”
“I’ll worry a
bout that later,” Janice, our impractical Hoofer, said, holding up a blue and gold samovar over a foot high. It was a large coffee urn, with two sturdy gold and black handles on the side, a little gold tap in front, and a scene painted all around that would remind Janice of this trip to Russia every time she looked at it.
The scene showed a white-bearded man wearing a red-belted coat with a fur collar. He was using a wooden stick as a cane as he stood sturdily on the snowy bank of a small lake. Next to him were three birch trees, black and white against the blue sky. Behind the old man was a young woman wearing a red jacket over an orange dress which was partly covered by a green apron. Her head was covered by a yellow babushka and she was carrying two baskets suspended on a wooden rod across her shoulders. Way in the background was another warmly dressed woman walking her dog. While it was unlikely that anybody would ever actually make coffee in this work of art, it would be a perfect addition to Janice’s apartment, which was filled with unusual acquisitions from her travels and from the plays she’d appeared in.
“I’m coming for coffee as soon as we get back home,” Mary Louise said to her, and opened another bag she was carrying.
“Tina, you have to see this fur hat I bought for Sam,” she said. Sam is her youngest son. “Can’t you see him wearing it at college?”
“It’ll probably end up on your head at a cocktail party,” I said. “They’re incredible though, aren’t they? Here’s the one I got for Peter.”
“You got Peter a hat with a hammer and sickle on it?” she said, laughing. “He’ll never wear that.”
“You don’t know Peter,” I said. “He just seems conservative. He tries to be sensible and proper, but when you give him a little push, he can be persuaded to do anything. You’ll see. He’ll wear this hat to court one day.”
“I keep telling you,” Mary Louise said, “you should marry him.”
“Stop pushing Tina to get married,” Janice said to Mary Louise, frowning at her. “Let her alone. She’ll get married again when she’s good and ready—or not. Right, Tina?”